


Where they are now

by bellamylover



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Analysis, Angst, Canon Season 2, Death, Depression, F/M, First Person, Grief, Humanity, Mourning, Second Person, Surrealism, objectivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:11:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamylover/pseuds/bellamylover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a glance into the mentality of Bellamy and Clarke at the end of season 2. Angst. Almost an explanation of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where they are now

It killed your humanity. 

 

Emotions, relationships, desires are the furthest thought from your mind. Morality perhaps. More likely, it is nothing--emptiness. You are no one. You feel nothing. And you believe in nothing.  
It killed the human in you.

 

You cannot take the pain. So you are shut. Your hollow cold eyes stare out from behind a chilled mask. What human emotion are you glancing past? You cannot register it. You have transitioned.

The world, it takes everything from you. If it hasn’t taken you yet, it will take your humanity. Pretty soon you won’t feel a thing.

It has supposedly broken you, but you don’t feel broken. The broken are those who still feel everything too much, who are bleeding so intensely, so profusely, that they are living only in pain. But this, this has frozen your innards. You are free from the emotion. Your mind is so bent you can’t think of love or life. I suppose your mind is the thing that’s broken, not you. It’s cracked, completely halved, I’d say. The broken are those whose minds are breaking with the strain of holding too much, of carrying too much, of still caring of what’s around you, what’s happening, what hurts. Those whose minds are bleeding dry an endless fountain of awashed blood-ink, remembering everything, carrying everything.

What it means to live is what it means to hurt, to hate, to bleed. And the tiny moments of happiness can never stand among the flood of hurt that sloshes waist-high every day. Molding. Deteriorating. Sinking in the stink. You want to die.

 

I watch you walk and I know the thing you run from is in your heart, that it is only you who can change it and maybe not even then. This fight is harder. There have been physical fights, intelligent fights, emotional fights, fights of patience, strength, belief, and willpower. This, this is the fight to feel alive. 

 

This time you are your own enemy but in the worst way possible. To succeed is to force yourself to break again and to let it happen, again and again, constantly. Force yourself to break mentally and break emotionally. To feel spirit as it flickers and dies and fades, flickers and dies and fades, flickers again.  


What can you do about life anyways? You can’t change it, you can’t accept the horror, you can’t still with the horror either. And shutting off from the horror will keep you moving bodily but disengage you mentally. How much is too much? Where is the point of balance, the right place, the place where wrong is clear and you take the horror and pain and let it wash over you again and again and let yourself feel again but not break, let yourself feel again but not fall. How do you know how much to let yourself break. And every time you do break, how can you not change, in one direction or another. How do you keep yourself in that place of goodness, of innocence, of newness to the pain. How to keep it from blending all together. In one direction it swallows you, drowning you... in the other it absorbs you, extinguishing your light.


End file.
